Imperfect

I spent a great deal of the Summer out of Edinburgh, indeed, out of Scotland. I should, of course, being a gay, be able to liken that to Meryl Streep and Out of Africa, but I can't. I'm a gay, yes, but a bad gay. Most gays know which style of top is hot this week and last, which band should be top of anyone's playlist and how to bitch. The best I can do is bake muffins. I'm sorry, it's true.

And I'm waffling. Again. And sorry for that, too.

So yes, I've spent much of the Summer away from home. For a myriad of reasons; to try and rescue my sanity, to spend time with my Mum and to see some sunshine. I'm not sure if I managed any of that, to be frank, but I tried and if I'd not even tried, I'd feel more of a failure now than I actually am.

On the sanity front - spending much of my time here alone with not much to do afforded me hours of tongue examination and my mind went a wondering. Without given facts but plenty on which to ponder, I'd frighten myself in imagining my imminent death on a daily basis. Anyone might imagine I had too much time on my hands. Perhaps they were right.

There's never a dull moment in Bournemouth. Mum's a very lively personality. She likes to push buttons and surround herself with something of a royal court. I've often wondered if she was a queen in a former life and if, perhaps, that's why her son turned out to be a queen, too.

I certainly did not have too much time on my hands in Bournemouth. In fact, I had no time to spare. Mum woke me up, most mornings, quite early. There was always a plan; people to see, things to do, bingo to play. There was no time to worry about what might or might not be.

It was great seeing Mum. When I initially left Bournemouth in 2000, I planned on going back down to Dorset about once a month. I've never actually managed that. Mum's either been too busy to see me or things have been happening up here. Of course, I have been down to England quite often, sometimes for extended periods and Mum's been here. I'm sure it averages out to about as much time as my planned one weekend in four. So I don't feel too guilty over it. Of course, such statistics, as used by many a government, paper over many a crack. I think I've convinced myself that I'm ok with this. I can be positive about it. Indeed, my eldest sister only lives a five minute car journey away from Mum. I see her much more often than my sister does, the bitch.

If 2007 had abeen a better Summer, I'd have been able to fulfil my other desire - to see some sunshine! Get a wee tan, even. No, not possible. Most days were dull. Overcast skies were the norm and there were as many wet days as there were dry.

But still, there was the bingo! And we won quite a bit. We never left out of pocket, even if we only broke even. One afternoon, Mum, Pat (her wee pal) and I left with just over one hundred pounds. We have a sharing pact, though. If my memory serves me well, we each came away with £34.33 each. Who got the extra penny, I can't say.

Those, I suppose, dear reader, are the bar bones of my Summer trip to England.

In my degenerating mind, it was somewhat different.

Loyal readers of this vile blog may know how my brother's wedding in West Virgina a few years back was a hotbed of hate and homophobia. My Mum still refuses to face facts and accept that her daughter is an evil and twisted bitch with opinions that would make Adolf Hitler look liberal.

I tried, on many occasions, to let sly comments go by the wayside, but once or twice, I did take the bate and debate the point with Mum. Why, I'm not too sure.

I don't have children. I imagine how a woman might feel torn when her children are fighting, but I do imagine and do hope that I'd be able to see right from wrong. No matter how old my children were, I'd like to think I'd intervene and punish where punishments were due, even if said punishment was just a tirade of verbal abuse.

But I'm not a parent. So I don't really know. I cannot judge my Mother. I don't have the ability to walk a mile in her moccasins.

All I am able to take from the Summer is that I don't want to fight with my Mother, I don't want to argue and I don't want another sibling to come between us. I have to accept that Mum isn't perfect. Mum has to accept that her children aren't perfect either. Both sons and daughters.

I love my Mother dearly, even if she is a right wing xenephobe. She's going to be seventy seven years old in November. I don't know how much longer I'll have here with her but certainly intend to treasure whatever time I do have. Quite a poignant statement, actually, especially considering that it's two years ago today that Ian's Mum passed away after a short illness.

There are still some bones I'd like to pick over and contentious subjects I'd like addressed, but I won't let them get in the way of my relationship with Mum. All health scares taken into account, we might not have that long together. No-one knows what's around the corner. And a cliché, I know, but she or I could get run over by a bus tomorrow.

That said, my sister really should do something about the widening rift she's caused within my family. I've never been one for being buddies with a person simply because we're related, but I do care on some level for my bitch of a sister. If I didn't, all this wouldn't bother me. And I know it bothers Mum. So if that bus did come for Mum or I tomorrow, my sister would have to live out the rest of her life with no opportunity to repair the damage she's done.

And what a lot of damage.

To add insult to homophobic injury, she's forbidden her daughter from telling my Mum (her Gran) that she's a lesbian. My sister's story varies from source to source. She's either blantantly vague on the matter, can't bring herself to tell Mummy, indifferent or insisting Mum doesn't know the truth because she's ashamed of her daughter's lesbianism.

But Mum will find out. It's not a question of if but when. Practically every member of the family knows about my niece. The only person who doesn't seem to know is Mum. Whether it's a slip of the tongue or intentional, she will be told at some point. The only question then remaining will be my Mother's: how come everyone else knew and not me?

I'd really hoped, even in taking the brunt of my sister's hatred, she'd learn something from that American episode. No. She hasn't. She's still a homophobic cunt. I pity her, I really do. But I can't help loving her. I'm some kind of glutton for punishment, I think.

Hey, ho. As Sylvia Mason-James once said to me, live for today, hen.

Flying

A friend of mine from the United States of America called Steve said he was coming to see me yesterday. Something of a flying visit. He's not shown up. Should I be worried?

Hoot

My first time in the United States of America was an absolute hoot. The aeroplane journey was so exciting. 2003. September. Alan (Armadale Alan not Yokohama Alan) knew this guy, Doug, in Alexandria. Virginia, I think. I'd played host to him in Scotland when Alan couldn't or needed time off.

Doug returned the compliment by asking us across to stay with him. He might have only been being polite, I don't think so, but we took him up on his offer, anyway.

Entry into the United States of America was dreadful. We must have been queueing up for about three hours before being seen and by no means were we the last people to disembark. The immigration personnel were so frosty, it was dreadful. The first American I'd ever spoken to on American soil was as rude as hell to me. Not what I was expecting. I thought America was all about having a nice day.

Doug picked us up on the public side of Dulles airport. He was not happy, if only because he'd had to pay vast sums of money to park there all that extra time. No matter. He drove us back to his place.

His home was very sparse. Very little furniture and tablecloths pinned up at the windows instead of curtains. He gave up his bed for us and slept in the other bedroom. On the bare floor. There was only one bed. What a saint.

It was so hot in his house! He had air conditioning but there was something wrong with it, something about tripping the security alarm, as did an open window. So we had to sweat it out! We Scots are not used to heat!

He worked during the day. We spent every day bar one in Washington. What a fabulous city. So clean, so perfect, history on every corner.

On the Saturday, Doug, obviously not working, came with us into Washington on the metro. We took a tour of the Capitol building. Why, I don't know, but he had a knife tucked into his sock. Before starting the tour, we were all told that guns and other weapons were not allowed in the Capitol. This was almost comedy to me. First, that anyone would need to be told this, second, that anyone would have a gun at all. Why would anyone have a gun? He said he didn't know whether to just be brazen and try to gain entry with it, not take part in the tour at all or hide the knife somewhere. In the end, after gentle persuasion, he buried the knife in the grounds of the Capitol! Under a wee bush! Americans have such a different attitude to guns and other weapons to us Brits.

Once or twice, he dropped us off at the metro station on the way to work. I thought it was funny. He referred to it as the kiss and ride place. Kiss and ride. A bit strange in such a PC environment. Doug had only very recently told me to stop saying, "my love," and, "darling," to people when speaking to them. He said they might bring charges against me. I scoffed at the very idea. What a strange country, where you might find yourself in trouble with the police for
being nice to someone.

He took us to a strip bar one night. Very strange. Strange because all the men were already naked and dancing on the bar when we arrived. No stripping took place. A one dollar bill planted in one of the guy's socks would provide some kind of reward. Initially, I refused, claiming I didn't have a dollar bill (I did). So Doug gave me one (ahem). I put the dollar bill into the man's sock. He wiggled his wiggler in front of my face. Very nice.

Then we went to another bar. I wasn't allowed in as I didn't have ID. I was VERY obviously over twenty one years of age, but my "laughter lines" did not make up for me having no driving licence or passport.

Another bar did let us in, though Doug reckoned they were breaking the law in doing so. But, hey, ho... And the drinks were free. Actually, this is a lie. The drinks may well have been free, but Doug told me off for not giving the barman a dollar for each drink. Three dollars? What for? Tip! I thought the drinks were free... And that was not the only place we were expected to tip. It was ridiculous. You pay for goods or a service and then are expected to pay again? Pay extra? Dreadful!

Then we went to New York for five days, staying in a gay hotel. Something about pines, I think... Ah! Chelsea Pines! Why we had to stay in a gay place, I don't know. It was rough and tatty. We could have stayed in a much better hotel for less money. It's not like any regular place would have thrown us out for sharing a double bed.

We were asked, on the flight from Washington to New York, if we'd like a drink. Ian asked for a tomato juice.

"Oh my God! I just love the way you guys say toe-mar-toe!" shrieked Audrey, the delightful stewardess, basically announcing to the whole plane that there were Brits on board.

We were tapped on the shoulder from the row behind.

"Were are you guys from?"

"Edinburgh."

"Ah, I've been to Edinburrow."

Edinburrow? Aaarrrggghhh! Where is this mystical place, Edinburrow, which all Americans seem to have either visited or know about?

Ooh, I'm really in Victor Meldrew mode heute.

One thing I liked about the United States of America was the free top-up drinks, whether it's pop or coffee. I could gorge on root beer and coffee. I thought I'd have the time of my life in New York, breakfast in a diner. Never found one. So upset. You know, those all you can eat places. Five dollar buffet. Isn't that sad? Not that I couldn't find one, but that it so upset me, even now.

I thought New York was fascinating and the people were so friendly. I've never felt safer in such a big city. Wonderful. And once or twice, when we had to get a map out, we were approached by locals, asking if they could help us. Wonderful. The first time it happened, I was worried. I thought, oh, lord, here's someone thinking he can take advantage of two idiotic tourists... Never happened.

In Portugal, though, when this happened to us, a guy said he was going to whichever place we wanted to go to and would walk with us. That was nice. And it was only a five minute walk. He made conversation with us along the way, saying he was learning English and thanked us for letting him speak with us. Then we got to where we wanted to be. He demanded money. Damned cheek! He claimed he was an official guide. So what? Bloody nerve!

Sorry for going off on one.

We did all the usual things any tourist might do in New York – though my favourite was Katz's Deli. Wonderful. Suburban New York was so much more interesting than hectic Manhattan. I really wanted to explore Brooklyn. You know, dear reader, how I love A Tree Grows In... Never happened. And there was this building, apparently, which has apartments and rooms decorated in various styles from various decades over one hundred years. The only window in our schedule, Thursday afternoon - and it was closed!

Loved shopping. I bought a load of pants in Macy’s. CK briefs are the same price in US Dollars as they are here in pounds! Bargain! Oh, and tiramisu and coffee in Little Italy was wonderful. Like being in Italy but hearing only American accents.

I spoke with a lady in a coffee shop about her background. She said she loves being an Italian American. I said, in the UK, no-one would ever say they are a Welsh Briton and asked her why they did such things there. I think she was initially a bit upset at me asking. But she did say she was proud of her heritage. I think she thought I was taking the piss. I wasn't. I just wanted to know.

I did get the impression that the United States of America is a very strange place, a very wild mix of overt friendliness and touchiness. There are too many taboo subjects for me to cope with. So much so, I think, people, at best, in fear of upsetting each other, at worst, afraid of the long arm of the law, are left with little more than the weather to talk about.

Then we came back to Washington.

And yes, the weather. Hurricane - Isabel? I think that Isabel was the name. Bloody hell! All flights were cancelled. We couldn't go home. Our two week holiday was extended by another five days. Our cheapo insurance wouldn't pay out because it was an act of God and we weren't already in a hotel. And what a load of fuss over nothing. Sandbags. States of emergency. Women crying. And it was just a bit of wind. Sure, a few branches came down and the sea was a bit wild, but nothing we don't get here every Winter. Having said that, I know there were deaths (I don’t think in the USA), but the damage around Alexandria was next to none. A complete over reaction. Or perhaps it's better to be prepared for the worst. I don't know.

I'm just glad we don't get them here.

And I was ready to go home, too. Doug was very kind to us, very hospitable and gave us somewhere to stay, sacrificing the comfort of his own bed. What a star.

We took him out for a meal to thank him for putting us up. Whatever he ate came with cream cheese. He asked them to leave it off. When the bill came, there was no discount for the lack of cheese. He complained and we were then presented with a new bill. Fifty cents were deducted for the lack of cream cheese! Or was it sour cream? I wished the world would open up and swallow me. I was mortified! That's perfectly acceptable in the United States of America. I've discussed it with my sister-in-law. She wouldn't dream of paying for something she didn't get. Here, offending chef would be bad enough. Expecting money off for the offence is unthinkable!

Sorry for rambling on.

I must just tell you, though, dear reader, that we flew to New York on or around 11th September! I've never known any airport care less about security! Really! We weren't checked, X-rayed or anything and our luggage received no checks whatsoever. Furthermore, while waiting at the gate to go back to Washington, I noticed an unattended bag next to me. Open. I told a girl on the desk. She wasn't the least bit worried, saying she expects whomsoever owns it will be back soon.

Bizarre.

Oh, and I hate the way Americans say they need me to do something. So rude! I need a lot, but I would never make such a demand. Is it not impolite, there, to say such things? "I need you to get this, that and the other for me..."? What's so bad about saying, "Would you, please...."?

Sorry (again). Rant over!

Food

I like food. Look at the size of me. My adoration of all things edible is blatantly obvious.

I say all things, but that's not strictly true. I don't really like eating meat at the best of times and most certainly will not eat offal. As if eating a dead body were bad enough! Many people don't stop there. No. They delve into the body caivty, reach in and grab the poor creature's organs and then proceed to cook and eat them! Oh, for the love of our dear, sweet, Lord Jesus Christ!

In fifteen days, wee Minge will be jetting off with Phyllis to the land of the rising sun. I adore Japan. I do. I love it. It's fabulous on so many levels, as close to visiting another planet as I'm ever likely to get, in this incarnation, at least. However, I have, on previous visits to that most delicious of Asian island nations, had cause for concern.

During a train journey, during 2004, I believe, going from Kyoto to Hiroshima, I opened my bento box to find something which looked not dissimmilar to a grilled mouse. On another occasion, when probing some flesh in a bowl, I heard someone make a, "Miaow!" Not knowing who was making the cat sounds, I was in no position to ask if my meal contained anything feline. On my last visit, while staying in Okinawa, Ray and Susan took us to a sushi restaurant where Ray consumed vast quantities of crab's organs.

I must say, though, that these examples of weird food are not the tip of the iceberg, but the full story of vile cuisine in Japan. For the most part, everything is delicious, beautifully presented and gore-free. Indeed, of the many reasons I have to look forward to returning to Japan, the food is very near the top of my list. In fact, second only to seeing my sexymutha. There are many more weird things one might consume outwith Japan's border.

Menudo, often eaten in Mexico to cure a hangover, is a popular tripe dish. Here, in Scotland, haggis (containing heart, liver and lungs) is widely eaten - and in vast quantities. In Wisconsin, animals' bollocks are deep fried and eaten. I kid you not, dear reader. Forget Kentucky Fried Chicken! Wisconsin Fried Balls, according to aficionados, are very tasty!

ELDERON, Wis. (AP) - Around here, it may be tough to pass up anything deep-fried.

Wisconsinites have deep-fried cheese curds, candy bars and Twinkies. They now have deep-fried livestock testicles, too.

More than 300 people paid US$5 for all-you-can-eat goat, lamb and bull testicles Saturday at the ninth annual Testicle Festival at Mama's Place Bar and Grill in Elderon in central Wisconsin.

"Once you get over the mental (aspect) of what you're eating, it's just like eating any other food, and it tastes good," Buster Hoffman said.

Festival founder Nancy Fenske said the festival grew out of her late husband Roger's birthday party 12 years ago. They decided to have "a nut fry" at Mama's Place after bringing back lamb fries from a trip to Montana.

The event grew every year and now they fry up to 45 kilograms of testicles, she said.

"What else can you do in a small town?" Fenske said.

Butch Joubert, 58, likes the parts sandwiched between bread with tartar sauce. They're not so different from regular meatballs also served at the festival, he said.

"After a few beers, you can't really tell the difference," Joubert said.

Forty five kilos of testicles, indeed! Would make any gay man's eyes water, even Jonah Falcon!

My epicurean fears about Japan pale into insignificance.

In just a little over a fortnight, Minge could be eating in any one of these establishments:

Vampire
Alice
Princess
Prison
or
Ninja

Alan and Junya (his beau), have extended to us an invitation to join them for an all-Nippon meal!

Which one would you choose, my little maid?

Shoot!

Strangely, many Americans still believe having a gun will keep them safe, dear reader.

And in our current blame culture, survivors of the USA's latest mass shooting are now implicating the authorities who were out to save them. People who arm themselves with guns cannot blame gunmen or guns for deaths as they then involve themselves. And in a coutry where having a gun is seen as normal, this could account for more people than it does not. Instead, they seek to divert attention to the heroes who save them.

Guns do not protect, they kill.